Veigar's Past
by Christopher Lang
Summary: The full and fleshed out journey of Veigar before he joined the league


This is based off of Riot Games: League Of Legends

If you have questions on any of the terms or references refer to Google or if you just cant find anything PM me and I'll be glad to answer any questions

Also Don't rip my head off about Veigar Knowing Teemo, it seemed like a nice touch and he filled in someone the story

The cottage I lived in when I was small was always clean. Mother bustled about the house, cleaning almost obsessive-compulsively. Her skin was a pale blue, and her eyes were gray. And her raven hair danced in the sun like soft strands of the night, flecked with a purple so dark you could only see it in bright light. My father worked for a trade guild, constantly away to places like Demacia, Ionia, and Noxus. When he came home he told me about the cities, the markets, the people. I was always exited to hear about what he saw. He was a taller Yordle, not that that made him much taller than a meter, but he stood a head taller than most of the people in Bandle city. He resembled a cat, not a great resemblance, but the animal resemblance of most Yordles was never perfect. I certainly didn't take on my father, I was short for may age and remained slightly shorter for the span of my existence, I was a short gray feline, my eyes were blue then.

I always felt sort of pent up in the house, I always wanted to go running outside with our neighbor's child, a hyperactive raccoon who could run for ages more than I could. I never really learned or remembered his name, I would call him scout. He always ran ahead of me to check the area ahead and rushed back to tell me the bush we were going to camp out in was not full of Noxian pirates. We were rather inseparable. Always darting out first thing after breakfast (and sometimes even before then) only returning to our homes for dinner.

Eventually the outskirt suburbs of Bandle city became boring and already heavily explored by us. After much begging on my part, we went to explore the small wooded areas around Bandle city's western city limits. These were always full of tiny animals, interesting plants, and every now and then we'd spy a pixie in the trees. We spent a good portion of our years together in those small woods. We would even hike to the foothills of the Sablestone mountains, where timberwolves and wraiths lurked. Scout always seemed to have an affinity for hand to hand combat, when a wraith would float in our direction, whether in malice or curiosity, something in Scout's mind would click off. He would be laughing and joking one minute, and then his eyes would steel over, his expression blank. He would more or less fly at the threat, beating it back with quick and nimble paws.

After a few times in the Sablestone mountains and a few dead animals, we never saw another wolf, or wraith. When we did see them, they would be expeditiously moving in the direction opposite of ours. Even the big golems gave us a birth, not generally hostile beings but weren't normally wary of Yordles. Scout didn't seem to notice anything about his presence repelling the nasty beings of the deep woods, he just kept the smug smiling expression he always wore on his face, giggling all the way through the dense bush. Sometimes we'd find old rune fragments in the dirt, he would throw them at rocks to see them shatter, I would pick them up and feel the faintest tingle in my hands. One of them even lit up when I rubbed the grime off of its face. We spent many nights in the forest, him sleeping high up in a tree, me sleeping on the ground. We were thick ad thieves, beast friends. I thought nothing would tear us apart.

Scout was a year older than me and jumped at the chance to join the military. The training was said to take anywhere from seven months to a year. I spent the year alone roaming past the borders of Yordle Land. Visiting Icathia briefly, and even the forests of Kumungu. I was always looking to go farther away, to see what Valoran had to offer. But I wouldn't dare to cross the Voodoo Lands or go through Kumungu without the knowledge of the area or the assistance of a guide. I was always stuck to a limited (albeit giant) area of Valoran. When I came of age, I wanted to do work like my father did, a trader that saw the Valorian landscapes form a caravan. I took an apprenticeship with an accountant, just to become more well rounded. Nobody was moving through at the time so I just waited for Scout to come home from basic training. I had quite the keen mind as it were. My master was astonished on how well I could predict the rise and fall of the prices of merchandise and the currencies of Valoran. It was like I could see the trends floating in front of me.

A company that was the middle-man of the trading between Demacia and Noxus came through Yordle Land to trade art and weapons. I overheard the weapons dealer getting scammed by the traders, two crates of potions for 1000 gold. I was appalled at the willingness of these humans to scam us and ran up to the dirtbag to tell him off. I insulted his ancestors and loudly pointed out his lack of ethics. As I did so he drew a dagger from his belt and lunged at me. The weapons dealer and myself screamed but one of the other traders caught his arm and threw him down. The trader helped me to my feet and asked why I said those things to a much larger stranger.

I told him with no shortness of nasty tone in my voice the price he should be paying for the potions, and how much he should apologize to the little old man for all the years he had been getting played. I expected him to strike me or become furious, never to come back. I always had a problem with saying things before I thought about them, my resolve crumbled as his eyes took a blank stare at my shoes. He seemed deep in thought, he stood there, burning a hole in the tops of my shoes with his focused gaze. He snapped into lucidity and offered me a job with his company.

I went from being peeved and curious to overjoyed, I jumped at the chance. I ran home to pack, my father and mother both ecstatic. As I was throwing clothes into a backpack, Scout crossed my mind. His name flashed in front of me, it made me freeze. Teemo. His face played out in front of me, the memories of the time we shared made me regret taking the job. He would wonder where I had went, he would feel like I forgot him, what would I say to him if I ever saw him again. This job was important, just like the military was important to him. I grabbed some paper and a quill from my pack. I told him where I was and when I might be coming back. This stopped the nagging voice in the back of my mind from stopping my leaving. I folded the paper and gave it to his mother before running to hop on the caravan.

Crates filled the wagons, full of weapons, gold, steel ingots, and some were unmarked. I didn't bother checking the contents, even though all shipments were supposed to be marked and cataloged, I didn't want to question my new employer. The road through the voodoo lands was intricate and winding, we saw small towns and cities, and when I asked why we never stopped there, they just changed the subject.

When I crossed into Noxus, I knew almost immediately. Even the rural areas of Noxus were instantly recognizable. The soil was a blackish-green color, the air smelled of something indescribable and stale, the sky was a darker, grayer color than anywhere else. And the effects of the Noxian population only intensified as we approached the border walls. The walls were filthy and covered in animated films of slime, towering guard turrets housed dark figures, probably training crossbows at our heads. One of the traders said to just do whatever they wanted, and just not to speak. We were detained in a customs office while they were searching our cargo. After five minutes we were let through with our cargo in tow. We moved nearly all of the merchandise, the numbers kept safely in my head. We moved out of Noxus without a hitch and moved towards Demacia. Goods from Demacia Sold in Kumungu, Kumungu sold to Shuriman nomads. Trading with the nomads was as much a ritual as it was business, but we bought a large amount and moved back to Demacia to trade. Shuriman goods sold to the Demacians and the Noxians. We made tow trips to Demacia before planning on heading back to Noxus.

The humans always stopped to drink at bars, I never liked the taste of ale and just sat in the wagon thinking about how scout was doing. I fantasized that he was a high ranking officer, commanding the mothership with a smile. After the stop in Noxus we were heading back to Yordle Land. It had been two months on the road and I was exited to come back home and drop off some money for my parents. Something ran by the wagons in front of the ones I was sitting in and paused briefly behind one of them. I sat up and threw one of the knives from a crate at the cloaked figure. The knife missed it's mark but thunked into the wooden frame of the wagon next to his head scaring him off. I walked over to the wagon and checked it's contents. Nothing out of the ordinary, he hadn't touched the boxes or tried to open them. Nothing was missing so I returned to my wagon and fell asleep on the grain sack I sat upon.,reaming of seeing mother, father, and Scout again.

I awoke early and we set off just after breakfast. We began approaching Noxus ans noticeably as before. The smell, the dark soil, the sky, all glaring reminders of why we didn't come here often. We approached the gate and were detained for the search yet again. This normally took all of five minutes, we hand over the sealing rune that opened the crates, they spend five minutes checking our cargo, always finding one or two things missing but nonetheless intact, and proceed in and out.

The five minutes it generally took stretched well past ten, twenty, thirty minutes. When the door opened a large group of guards with shackles came in and arrested us. One of the others saw my terrified expression and said that this happened regularly, and it would be over soon. Apparently they mistake some legal spices with illegal mineral ores on a regular basis. We were dragged out to the wagons to be made to explain the cargo while they retrieved a mage to analyze the contents. They pulled us to the wagon with a crate of books open in the back. They were Demacian religious texts, why did we have those? Those were not on the wagon when I took inventory last night. Last night. My mind flashed to the thief, not trying to steal from us, but set us up. My heart pounded and my boss fruitlessly tried to explain that there had to be a mistake.

We were taken to a courtroom, and a disgusting looking Noxian judge sat behind the stand. We were barely given a trial, stating whether or not we were guilty and the guard presenting the books to the judge. The judge seemed to sentence us without a thought. A degree one offense, torture and imprisonment for twenty years. I shook violently where I stood, we had been set up to be imprisoned. And better yet in Noxus. We were hauled off to the prison, a place as bleak and black as I had imagined. I was stripped naked and tossed into a tiny cell with no windows and a door that fused with the wall, making the room inside completely pitch black.

I couldn't see anything at all, Yordles are supposed to see in the dark, but only if there is the slightest light at all. The filthy cell was all but empty, a high ceiling as far as I could tell and a hole no bigger around than my arm in the corner that smelled like it let to a cesspool. I had no way of spanning time, there was nothing repetitive I could use to measure time. I was completely isolated from everything. And when I tried to sing a song from my childhood to try to relax myself, I found that nearly all sound I made was muted. The only sound I could really hear was the faintest trace of my own breathing. This was my torture, Yordles don't do well isolated, we're very social creatures that almost depend on interaction to keep sanity.

Occasionally there would be a wooden bowl with something disgusting in it. At first I couldn't eat it but after the longest time, the shooting pains in my stomach made me force the disgusting paste down my throat. I would always leave it about after I was finished, and it would just disappear and return later full of what I could only assume was the gray mush they were feeding me. Time passed in a solid movement, I tried counting the seconds between when they fed me but it was so scattered and random that I couldn't rely on it. One time it was a count to 8334, the next 4875, 6652, 7745, 3365. I stopped counting after very long.

One day as I sat in the corner, thinking about nothing, a searing pain blasted across my back. Blood flowed from the wound as I lifted my self shakily from the grimy floor. I was hit again across the chest, I couldn't even tell with what. It wasn't sharp, but it drew blood and left long thick gashes through my skin and matted my fur with blood. The amount of time that this happened in was elongated, which I thanked the heavens for. Eventually the cuts healed over and turned into scars where the fur wouldn't grow.

Not long after my imprisonment, my need to interact was turning sour. I started to hear again,but this time it was voices in my head. I sat listening to them talk to me. "kill them all" "the existence of other life is why you're like this" "death is the only answer" "see them for what they are" "let us in". Eventually I did.

They stopped trying to coax their way into my head now and gave me conversation. The physical torture happened in longer spans after I let them in. I thought the voices were keeping them at bay so I let them share my mind as they pleased. One day, one of the many said something interesting. " kill the ones who are doing this to you." How? I cant see them and as far as I can tell they're never in the cell. "what do they put in here every so often?" The bowl! But how am I supposed to use that to kill them? "they have to take it out of the room, use your head you live in here too"

I started to train my body after that. Using my body weight I lifted myself, pushed myself and honed myself as fast as I could become. And when I felt that I was ready, after eating the now tasteless paste, I held onto the bowl with all of my strength waiting for them to come and retrieve it. When I felt a tug on the bowl I leaped in the direction of the tug and popped through the wall into the hallway. Even the dim burning of the torches seared my eyes as I stood up. I had gone without light for the longest time and now the tiniest speck of light sent waves of pain through my head.

The guard tried to stutter out a cry for help, but I jumped in his direction and snapped his neck in one brief movement. He was wearing a wide brimmed cap and I put that on my head to shield my eyes from the light. I tore his clothes apart and wrapped them around me to cover my skin. As I tied swathes of cloth around my body, I noticed how scarred it was. This didn't matter, what I needed to do was to get out of Noxus before I was imprisoned again.

The guards at the gate's necks snapped like twigs, I burst through the gate with the alarms sounding behind me. I ran down the roads, hearing the denizens of Noxus behind me, promising kindness and release if I were to come back. I ignored them and darted through to the borderland between Demacia and stopped to pass out.

I slept solidly and awoke to someone wiping my fur with something warm and wet. I sat up with a start and a curse at the person in the room. He was an elderly Yordle, with a long gray beard and a small flat cap on his head stood beside the bed in what I could only assume was a trade wagon. He explained to me he found me nearly dead from exhaustion, covered in filthy rags in the middle of the road. I had been asleep for nine days after that night, he had said. My mind snapped to the question that had been nagging at me for the duration of my imprisonment.

"What Year..." my voice trailed off as I heard my voice for the first time in an age and a half. It was raspy, and imbalanced, and a higher pitch than I had remembered it being. The old man looked puzzled and said the year was 566 according to the Demacian calendar. I had been in that hell for five years. I took a look at my body and noticed I was clothed in a soft blue tunic and trousers.. but the fur under the clothes was not mine. It was a black that swallowed the light around it, not reflecting any . And then I saw my reflection in the small bowl of water he had been cleaning me with. My eyes glowed yellow,no pupils or slits, just solid yellow.

He had cleaned my thin fur and I now was just how scarred my body was. My back felt bare and gashes ran diagonally down my chest and stomach. I thanked the old man and lifted my self from bed, I noticed that my muscular structure had returned and then some. The old man was probably feeding me potions while I slept. My mind flashed to the Noxians who had done this and something crackled in my left hand. Magical fire burned in my hand, my fury making it bigger. My eyes darted around the room to rest on a piece of Demacian magic on the wall, an artifact staff I remembered reading about when I was studying runal magic. I grabbed the staff off of the wall and bolted out of the door of the wagon. I heard the old man screaming in protest but ran off, the surprisingly light staff in hand.

I didn't think much about anything but killing past then. My mind thought to how I could do it. After bouncing ideas around my head for a few hours, I decided to learn magic. But I wanted to kill all the Noxians I could find, so to fight fire with hotter fire I ventured out to the dark tower in the Sablestone Mountains near the Plague Jungles. As I walked I channeled my hate and need to kill into my mind, using it to my advantage. I started feeling the magic well up inside of me, I bent it, twisted it, and molded it to kill. I could never bring anything into my right hand, and when I wasn't holding the staff in my right hand, the magic was tiny and miniscule. It was like the staff wanted to help me.

The spindly old man that lived in the dark tower was resilient to my apprenticeship at first until I showed him my raw potential when I attacked him in frustration. He deflected the lump of raw magic that I threw at him with ease but his eyes widened when a produced a fifth, eighth, thirty-second bolt before tiring. He clothed me in a dark blue robe with a high collar. I affixed steel fastenings and spikes around the borders and shoulders of the piece and used magic to craft steel gauntlets to amplify the powers of my left hand and the staff. I studied endlessly, memorizing spell theory, manipulation, and how to use my emotion to create magic rather than let it influence it.

The old man's teachings were not nearly enough, as far as theory and technique were concerned l learned those almost entirely. But I had developed only a more ore less killing blow, an unstable mass of rapid magic that ripped through shields but was in no way all I needed. I sought out the medicine men of the Plague jungles, the Shuriman spice masters of the desert, and even the noble mages of Demacia. I had become a power to be reckoned with, I could trap you in a magic cage, hammer you with dark matter from other dimensions, and force raw magic into my hand straight into your soul. The souls of the ones I killed were eaten by the staff, giving it new power exponentially.

To most, thoughts of Yordles do not conjure images to be feared. My easygoing half-pint race, though fierce, is often regarded with some degree of joviality. Their high-pitched voices and naturally cute forms inspire something of a protective instinct in the larger races, or at least bring to mind images of children playing at being adults. But it's dangerous to be cruel to what is smaller than you. Because if you try to put more hatred into those small bodies than can fit, it overflows. I took a name. My old name lies in the deep recesses of my mind probably never to be dug up again. It means vengeance, victory, and surprising might

Veigar


End file.
